


Give Me Again All That Was There

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Series: The Ward Series [4]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Dragons, Lightning-Borns (JQ Creature), M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-15 15:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8061295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: "Give me the sun that shone;Give me the eyes,Give me the soul,Give me the lad that's gone."(Skye Boat Song)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prouvairablehulk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairablehulk/gifts).



> Apologies in advance for any weird words. Fucking autocorrect is a bitch.

Not for the first time, Hartley regrets his inability to tell Bartholomew "no."

"A dragon?"

The knight ducks his head a little. "Yes. He is the only one who can get us there before Eobard returns!" he hastily adds over Hartley's opening mouth.

"Bartholomew, when you asked me to join you on your little quest—"

"I  _paid_ you, I did not—"

"There was no dragon involved in the deal, much less the menace of Keystone Mountains. How you managed to earn his agreement, I don't dare think." That's a lie; Hartley would  _love_ to see Bartholomew go up against a dragon and ask nicely for help.

Bartholomew sighs. "I need both of you. What can I do to make you stay on?"

Aha. "My price is doubled."

" _What_?!"

Hartley crosses his arms. "You want to get into Thawne's fortress or not, knight?"

"Would you not just do it for a friend?"

Hartley almost laughs aloud. "Even if we were friends, Bartholomew, my answer would still be no."

Bartholomew scowls at the ground a moment. Hartley takes the time to estimate how much that custom armor must be, painted red and suited so well for its bearer. Central's hero looks like a shining ruby in the middle of a highwayman's worn room at a backwater inn. If only the kingdom knew that their dearest progeny associated himself so often with outlaws.

"Fine. Fine, doubled."

Hartley smirks. He holds out his hand. "Pleasure doing business with you, as always."

Bartholomew's noble features pull together, as if he smells the stink of Hartley's criminality. How  _cute_.

"Meet us on the shores of The Twins' Lake in two days."

"Oh,  _yes_ sir."

They exchange begrudging smiles before Bartholomew squeezes his hand once more and takes his leave.

Hartley counts to sixty. Then he starts packing.

 

The Twins' Lake is in the heart of Starling Woods, the exact halfway point between Central Kingdom and Keystone's mountain cities. Many rumors are whispered about fae and spirits that dwell within them, but Hartley has crossed the forest too many times to believe any of it.

When Hartley reaches the shores in its wide clearing and large rocks, the sky hisses out dawn's feeble light. He withholds a grimace, flexing his right hand—a thick starburst of scars that never quite healed, always aggravated by storms. Thankfully he doesn't have to twiddle his thumbs, for lounging in the middle of the lake is the very dragon himself.

Under the balls of fire he's pushed into the air, the dragon's scales dance vivacious garnet and topaz. His eyes are large gold coins that flicker like his flames, made small when measured with his enormous head and sharp mane of black spikes. Smoke billows from his nostrils as he shakes his gargantuan limbs, evidently washing them.

Hartley has but a sparse moment to take in this incredible beast before he's  _speaking_.

A rumbling voice of smoke and ash spits, " _Finally_. I thought you had—"

When they meet eyes, the dragon stops. His eyes become two moons. Seems Bartholomew neglected to mention to him what Hartley looked like; at least they had that in common.

"Peace. I am Hartley, the other human on this job," he says. "Bartholomew is late again, I take it. Not to worry; he will show up sooner or later. Although I must say, I did not expect him capable of enlisting a dragon's help."

"Yes," the dragon replies faintly.

"What interest have you in this little adventure?"

The dragon's features contort in rage. Hartley calculates all escape routes in the area.

"Eobard Thawne has something of mine," the creature says, "I intend to retrieve it."

"Ah, an ulterior motive," Hartley says, "Bartholomew always finds something. If not for his tenacious heroism, I would think him an excellent criminal.

"Well, I have given you my name. What of yours?"

The ground whines and the water ripples. "Mikel," the dragon answers, "or Mick, if you prefer."

"Mick, hm? How do you plan to get us to Thawne's undetected?"

"I know a way. A flight path my clan and I used before that bastard set his first stone. I can get us to the edge of his wards. From there, I was told you knew what to do."

He has a clan? "So I do."

"And?"

Hartley pats his satchel. "All in good time, Mick."

All Mick does is snort. Interesting.

Encouraged, Hartley decides to push his luck: "I have heard many stories about you. Scorcher, Terror of the Mountains."

Mick rumbles, pleased. "Took me scarcely a day for those titles."

"I would imagine so. Eobard must know of you, then."

"Not with what I've got."

"Oh?"

The dragon dips his head. Hartley curls his toes as those burning eyes come close enough to sweat through his clothes, but otherwise he keeps his posture at ease.

"All in good time, _Hartley_."

Hartley's eyebrows rise. A slow smile beguiles his face.

"I think this will be a lucrative venture, Mick."

Bartholomew zooms into the clearing before Mick can reply.

"Central's prodigal son arrives at last," Hartley drawls.

Bartholomew huffs. "The fae kept pestering me! Do you know how hard it is to tune them out? How did  _you_ get here so fast?"

Hartley shakes his head. "Oh, I'm sure the fae gave you plenty of trouble, Bartholomew. But now that we are all present, why don't we get to business?"

 

Eobard Thawne's wards are quite extensive in both power and distance. Even with Mick's assistance, they would need to spend at least a day and a half getting to the sorcerer's gates on foot. Bartholomew can't use his speed or Mick his wings; getting through the ward is one thing, but staying in it without detection is another.

Hartley's charted three different ways to get there without the sentries knowing. He shows the map he acquired (Bartholomew scowls) for Mick's perusal, that the dragon might show them as much as he's able where his flight path ends.

Once he can garner where that enormous talon is actually pointing, Hartley nods. "Route two, then."

From there, he lays out the plan, though he inwardly grimaces at his lack of knowledge about Thawne's castle. Bartholomew will have to take it from there, having been in the sorcerer's clutches with the other lightning-borns for months. Getting into the place is where he has to hand the reins over. Thankfully, Bartholomew's not completely incompetent at coversion. Hartley can keep an eye on him.

After the discussion's done, Hartley turns to Mick and asks, "Care to share what you've got up your sleeve now?"

Mick holds holds up a talon. Upon closer inspection, Hartley and Bartholomew see a small chain at the tip.

"Shifting spell," the dragon says, "lasts up to a week. PHartleyty of time if things don't go to shit."

Hartley smirks and knocks on the nearest tree.

Bartholomew asks the question he's wondering: "How did you get something that powerful? I mean, I know you're a dragon and all, but that's. Really ancient stuff."

Mick shakes his wings in a shrug. "I know people."

Hartley is gonna get some great networking on this job.

 

Riding a dragon is not nearly as fun as Bartholomew makes it seem. The high altitude makes Hartley's ears pop, and no amount of leather and furs can keep Mick's scales from raking his skin. The winds dry his eyes out while yanking at his skin, until he's forced to snap his chin against his chest and suffer the tension ache.

But they do make it to the edge of Eobard's wards in mere hours. Just don't expect Hartley to hitch a ride back to Central.

The castle pincers the clouds in jagged spires and red lightning magic. Hartley doesn't need magic to feel survival instincts when he sees it. He walks around Mick's leg, abruptly stamped in front of him after dismount, to get a better look.

"Can't say it's above my pay grade," he says, "can I, Bartholomew?"

Bartholomew snaps out of his pale daze to send him a withering look. "I don't even wanna know what you plan to do with the money, do I?"

Hartley smirks. "Do-gooder like you? Probably not."

The air sucks and rolls in on itself. The two men blink away the disorientation.

"This feels weird."

Mick rolls his human shoulders and stumbles a little, clearly already missing his wings and tail. He's dressed in a simple tunic, but Hartley still takes his time looking. Solid muscle, shaven head, and a faint scar on his nose, with the same dragon eyes he first saw at dawn.

"How do you do this?" Mick asks Bartholomew.

"Relax, Mick," Hartley says, "just 'cause you weren't born with it don't mean you can't get used to it."

Bartholomew gestures impatiently ahead. "I got the shield ready. Better start while we have daylight left."

He invokes the enchantment before the other two can make a quip. They press together under the translucent dome. Mick's human skin retains his draconic heat.

Hartley stays close to it as he directs the first turn.

 

Bartholomew falls into a restless sleep when the moon reaches its zenith. Hartley takes first watch; Mick stays awake as well, staring into the fire.

"Gotta say," Hartley murmurs to him, "human legs suit you."

Mick snorts. “When you know you’re more than a wingless walker, anythin’ else feels unnatural.”

“Well ain’t that a shame.”

Mick shakes his head a little. “Won’t be long, if you’re as good as you say.”

Hartley smirks. “Oh, I’m a _natural_ at what I do.”

Another snort. Nothing else follows.

Curiosity, or perhaps sheer fascination, keeps turning Hartley’s eye. Every time, Mick’s hunched shoulders seem smaller and smaller, as if the dragon within has finally resigned itself to its temporary prison. But there’s something _else_. But Hartley supposes that, while he might be adept at reading humanoids, dragons are difficult no matter which form they take.

“You never said what exactly you’re snatching back,” he says at length.

There—a clenching fist, a twitch in the eye that’s not quite a wince. His true form showed obvious anger as well; this object is important to him. Did Thawne actually have the gall to steal something from a dragon’s hoard?

Mick says, “My mate,” and Hartley’s gaze snaps up from the fire.

“The Scorcher has a clan _and_ a mate?” the thief regains his smirk. “Well look who’s popular.”

“I ain’t goin’ back until I’ve got ‘im.”

The dragon’s rough determination tilts Hartley’s head.

“Wasn’t just a breeding thing.”

Mick huffs. “You ever see a male dragon have eggs? Didn’t think so.”

“No need to lose your cool. Not many of us ‘wingless walkers’ know much about dragons.”

“And what’s in it for you, huh?”

Hartley nearly rolls his eyes at the weak deflection. But he’s smart enough not to get on a dragon’s bad side, so he allows it. “Bein’ the first thief to crack Thawne’s enchanted locks.”

Mick stiffens. Giving Hartley a slow once-over, “Don’t look the type to have magic.”

“From what I understand, you just need intent, not magic. I’ve done it before, but nothing on _that_ level. Nobody has. So I’ll be the one who rips them all off.”

Although that’s the barest description Hartley could possibly give on the thriving case of black charcoal in his satchel. He has no magic, he _knows_ he doesn’t; his mother was a seamstress and his father was killed in a straightforward execution on account of being framed for theft by his brother. Therefore, intent is all he has to go on for when the runes crackle and breathe like frost under his fingers as they work with him to counter the heated blocks in his way.

Besides, isn’t that the core of magic? You shouldn’t have to have the actual element if you’ve got that.

Mick stares at him long enough for him to know the explanation’s as weak as he’s always thought.

Hartley pokes the fire and says, “I don’t have a magical bone in my body, Mick.”

Bartholomew snuffles in his sleep and turns over. Mick stares at Hartley a little longer before turning to the stars.

 

Fortunately for all three of them, Bartholomew’s chosen routes are vetoed by someone who’s actually flown above the terrain so many times that he knows the damn grounds well enough to know that they would get _eaten_ if they took the bridge instead of the brook.

While Hartley’s still habitually bothered by not being in charge, he’s more than happy to go on Mick’s word. Even if he’s a dragon, Mick wants his mate back; he wouldn’t lead the only creatures trying to help him into a trap.

It doesn’t even occur to Hartley until they come within sight of the castle that Mick could’ve sold them out to Thawne in exchange for the missing dragon. The thought shocks him enough to send a startled look at Mick’s back.

Then Bartholomew’s asking what’s wrong and Hartley recomposes himself before Mick glances over.

Bartholomew at least gets them into the castle proper without raising the alarm. Hartley will make a thief out of him yet.

Their dear hero is also prepared in another way: one of his friends—who just happened to be a _good fairy_ , Hartley’s going to roll his eyes right outta his head—gifted him with a special potion that masks their scents from any harpies or creatures Thawne might have waiting for them.

“Convenient,” Hartley mutters as he pats the stuff on his neck.

Bartholomew sends him an annoyed look while Mick slathers it all over his face. Dragon scents are a bit harder to douse.

Using the knight’s knowledge from his past imprisonment, Hartley finally seizes the lead. Bartholomew imitates his movements well enough to blend with him in the shadows and quiet his footsteps. Mick accomplishes this surprisingly well without any help, prompting Hartley once again to consider possible jobs with him in the future.

Then again, Mick has a mate and a clan. Hartley feels a little more frustrated than he feels he ought.

After countless held breaths and yanking on Bartholomew’s stubborn collar, they finally reach Thawne’s tallest tower. Hartley’s never been one for claustrophobia, but there’s a churning in his gut as he grabs the rope dangling in the center of the spiraling stairs and begins to climb. There’s barely any light either, save for at the very bottom, which fades fast as they climb higher and higher.

A burning hand fumbles over his. Hartley doesn’t startle. Some part of him knows it’s Mick.

He continues onward with a calmer stride.

 

As is the way with magical towers, the outside looks nothing like the inside. From below, the tallest tower is a thin stick like its staircase would have you believe. But at the top, Hartley, Mick, and Bartholomew find themselves staring at a long hallway full of light, with twelve windows on the right, one door for every three, and portraits of Thawnes on the left. And, of course, the thick, unassuming door at the very end.

Mick says, “Lots ‘a traps in here. I can smell ‘em.”

Bartholomew nods. “Thawne’s cautious. We can’t use your magic yet; we’ve got to get to that door first before he knows we’re here. Do you know where they are?”

Mick chortles. “Didn’t say they were magical, kid.”

He looks to Hartley. There’s a message in his eyes, an expectancy. Hartley can read it perfectly.

Reaching into his satchel, he pulls out a small bag. Untying the tough leather string reveals simple flour.

Bartholomew blinks. “How is that going to—”

“Re _lax_ , Sir Knight,” Hartley drawls, “leave this to the professionals.”

He tosses the powder before them. Ah. Those windows aren’t windows at all.

“What are _those_?” Bartholomew hisses.

Hartley takes in the strange red lines of light reflecting off the glass. “No idea, but I bet we don’t wanna find out.”

“No wonder they smelled weird,” Mick says. “How d’we get rid of ‘em?”

Hartley shrugs. “We don’t.”

Bartholomew perks up. “That’s right. We don’t have to.”

Hartley opens the door to their right. It’s out of reach of the lights.

Mick coughs. “Now _that_ is magic.”

The room is deceptively empty, only an iron chandelier creaking from the ceiling. That is, until Hartley peers closely at the floor…wonderful.

“Pixie fire,” he says, “one wrong step and you’ll get some nasty burns and a tripped alarm.”

Mick pushes him and Bartholomew to the side. “I can see the heat. Don’t touch the walls either.”

The almost invisible spiked implants have a certain path, as all fairy and pixie tricks do. The trouble is finding the right one. Mick takes his time looking, with only Bartholomew getting antsy behind him.

After a handful of careful minutes, he says, “I got it.”

“Are you sure?” Hartley asks.

Mick turns to him as if he took a knife to his wings. “’Course.”

Bartholomew grunts in surprise as the dragon throws him over his shoulder without preamble and takes him to the door that connects to the next chamber. With a growled warning not to move _an inch_ , Mick returns to Hartley.

“I ain’t one for—”

“Too bad,” Mick says.

Instead of swinging him over his shoulder, Mick dips an arm under Hartley’s knees and carries him like a bride across a threshold.

There’s something whispering through the walls.

Glare momentarily forgotten, Hartley yanks his head to the next door. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Mick’s voice bleeds with draconic rumbles.

Oh. It’s just the hissing of Mick’s heartbeat.

Hartley shakes his head. “You wanna put me down now?”

“Not yet. Open the door.”

“ _Mick_.”

But it would seem that dragons are, somehow, more stubborn than humans. Bartholomew eases the door open and peeks through the crack. At least he’s taking precautions; the door opens outwards.

Bartholomew makes a surprised noise and throws the damn thing forward. “Look!”

Evidently, Thawne wants to give intruders a last hope of space before they die. Only about a foot is given before the bones start crunching under the boot. Hartley looks carefully, but they’re all he can see: bones.

They connect to the hollowed skeleton of a dragon.

Hartley feels the moment Mick realizes it. A heavy sound, not quite a roar, chokes from his throat. His skin becomes unbearably hot, but he’s clutching Hartley so tightly there’s no hope of escape.

When Bartholomew turns around, Hartley tells him who it was. The knight’s shock shatters.

“Oh, Mick…I swear, I had no idea, I…” the rest punches out of him, “I am _so sorry_.”

Mick finally lets Hartley down so he can stagger to the chains. Ignoring the solid iron biting his skin, he tears the shackles apart, exposing shriveled pebbles that look like teeth. _Scales_.

The whispers from before scream in hushed spurts.

There are still two more chambers to go. Then, an enchanted door.

“Go,” Hartley murmurs to Bartholomew, “clear the next ones for us.”

“…Hartley—”

“ _Go_.”

Bartholomew looks back at Mick. The dragon, now silent, is curled around the skull’s snout. His throat clacks, but he moves.

Hartley stands at Mick’s shoulder. He’s never had anyone close to him, not even a sibling. His mother was a distant figure at best. But the convulsing in Mick’s fingers, the hard squeeze of his eyelids, it roots him to the spot.

Once Bartholomew disappears into the next chamber, Hartley murmurs, “What was his name?”

“You wouldn’t know it,” Mick snaps.

“That’s why I’m asking.” No answer. Hartley sighs through his nose. “What was he like?”

Mick heaves a wet gasp. “He was…” he shakes his head. “You woulda liked him. Breathed frost, you know. And he talked,” a weak laugh, “the bastard talked just to hear himself. Went on for hours, sometimes. I didn’t listen all that much unless he really _said_ somethin’. Loved our clan. Loved his sister the best.”

When he doesn’t go on, Hartley says, “Sounds like a dream.”

Mick stays quiet.

“I’m guessing he was supposed to be the trap.”

His forehead _thunks_ against the skull.

“Our dearest knight undoubtedly needs help. I’ll go on ahead—”

“I thought…”

Hartley pauses, halfway to grasping the latch. “Thought what?”

Mick stares at Hartley’s knees. “Nothin’.”

Hartley nods. “Stay here, Mick.”

 

The third chamber is a cage of lightning. Bartholomew wades through it no problem, acting as a natural conductor that Hartley can easily keep distance from so long as he keeps away from the walls.

It’s been easy so far. Too easy.

Either Eobard already knows they’re here, or—no. He has to know they’re here.

The question is, what is he waiting for now? Mick discovered what’s left of his mate, and Bartholomew’s drawing power from the lightning. Does he want to see if Hartley can do any damage on the door? Surely not.

A presence like Thawne’s cannot be ignored. They would know if he were here.

They reach the fourth chamber and _nothing happens_.

It seems to be a study, books and parchment scattered over tables and desks. A few magical artifacts that are easy to avoid touching. Hartley’s fists clench on his satchel.

Bartholomew looks disquieted as well. “Get to the door?” he asks.

Hartley gives the room one last once-over. “Keep an eye out.”

He leads the way back into the main hallway. The red lights are behind them now, the tall wood of runes arching just inches away.

Hartley takes out his charcoal and notes. He’s studied this damn thing long enough, but it’s good to have a reference. Bartholomew’s steady step blinks behind him.

Right.

The first string is simple, obviously a test or, more likely, a false hope. Then the second string twists over the ashes of its predecessor, and Hartley grins. Here’s the _real_ challenge.

The second string has pHartleyty of traps, like the ones Axel used to put out for a laugh. In the end, Hartley avoids them just the same.

Now he’s wondering who _Axel_ is.

Shaking his head, he moves to the third strand. There should be ten, but he’s betting on there being more. The previous speedster prisoners incarcerated with Bartholomew had remarkable memory, but Thawne is changeable. There’s a reason Shawna never liked him.

Shawna?

A flash of gold in his periphery. Bartholomew, though it looks so much like Liselle it almost hurts.

Hartley forces himself to complete the next rune before pausing. Liselle?

Axel, Shawna, Liselle— _MarkClydeSamuelRoy_ —what the—?

Perhaps one of the artifacts from the previous chamber has an airborne element. Hartley takes a deep breath and looks at the next symbol.

By the fifth strand, the complexity has taken a new height and that whispering is definitely _not_ Mick’s heart.

 _Of course it isn’t,_ it sighs at his ears, _you know it isn’t._

Hartley swallows. Si—sixth strand. Liselle would be giving him one of her looks by how his hands fumble with the charcoal.

Damn it, he doesn’t know— _of course you do. How could you not know your sister, your life, your purpose_ —

“Hartley? What’s wrong?”

Hartley shakes his head. “Anything coming?”

“Not yet. I don’t know why. Do you think…”

“Thawne’s—” _a complete moron for thinking he could imprison a_ —“careful, but nobody’d put up a spell like this for a decoy. Not even him.”

That’s it. It must be these damn runes. The further Hartley gets, the more powerful its hidden protections get. Obviously Thawne has not heard of Hartley.

Seventh strand.

Intent. Just focus on the intent.

_Yhoue know that’s not all yhoue need. Houe need magic. Hue has magic._

Hartley violently shakes his head.

 _He,_ he _has magic. He’s always had magic. He just doesn’t remember._

_Doesn’t he want to remember?_

“You’ve got further than I thought. Everyone said you were stubborn, but I must say I doubted your human pride.”

Thawne. _Usurper, traitor, jai—_

“You will not survive this time, Thawne,” Bartholomew shouts, “I swear it!”

Thawne laughs. “Yes, I can see how competent your help is. Tell me, _Leonard Snart,_ is your mind burning yet?”

Leonard Snart? Who is— _remember-remember-remember_ —

Thawne snarls. Hartley pants a strained smile.

Eighth strand.

A bolt of lightning, but Bartholomew has grown faster. Thawne imprisoned him once; he will not do so again.

Soon enough, Hartley has to divide his focus twice over to avoid getting shoved against the runes or otherwise risk smearing them. There are no do-overs for this kind of enchantment, unless he wants to start from the very beginning. His pace is rapidly slowing, every scratch of charcoal moving against iron weights to keep from shaking.

Bartholomew sends Thawne careening at the red lights, but they disappear from Hartley’s periphery just before a loud rolling of flesh pounds the hallway. Finally, one less thing to worry about.

 _Leonard Snart, Leonard Snart, Len, Lenny, Snart, Le—_ Hartley—Leonard—

He shakes his head again. He has to finish this. Whatever happens, Har—Le— _whoever he is_ (he doesn’t even know anymore, he _doesn’t know_ ), he has to finish this. He’ll be the first to do it. That has to count for something.

And Bartholomew deserves revenge. Mick deserves revenge. Leonard deserves revenge.

_“I thought…”_

Mick had thought that he had Leonard’s soul, somehow. Even if he did, where would it go? Would it erase everything he was?

He clamps down his panic. One more curve…one more jagged line…ninth strand.

There better not be more than ten.

The ninth strand is shorter than all of them, but it’s twice as treacherous. Trickier than a fae’s puzzle. If only he had— _a dragon’s soul._

Leonard Snart’s soul.

Before he can touch the ninth strand, glass shatters in the study. All he sees before light blinds him is Mick’s ragged face.

 

 _Eobard Thawne_ , that manipulating, conniving, evil son of a bitch!

Len rolls to his feet. He could almost laugh at how stupid that sorcerer is, daring to fill a dragon’s head with wingless memories, giving him a name from his clan.

Faking his death and shattering his mate. Len doesn’t know who that skeleton belonged to, but they deserve revenge as well. Oh yes, Eobard Thawne will die.

With renewed vigor, Len attacks the ninth strand.

Mick whispers, “Lenny?”

Len clenches his teeth. Mick sags against the doorframe from his lack of response. He has to wait. If he turns to him now, Len knows he’ll abandon his task to wrap his wings around Mick until Eobard rips their hearts out.

Using his reawakened dragon’s eye, he completes the ninth strand astonishingly easy. What magic he’d been able to dig from his prison is now joined by the rest of it. The magic he was born with, the magic that Thawne had the audacity to try to take from him.

Len hadn’t even remembered his sister.

“ _Lenny_?”

He silences the snarl in the back of his mouth. The tenth strand winds in tight waves from the very top of the door to the bottom. If there is an eleventh strand, no doubt it will stem from bottom to top. Len takes a deep breath and rises to the tips of his toes.

Thawne bellows an inhuman roar when he sees Len’s progress. Bartholomew blocks him just in time, shoving him back towards the staircase. Mick moves to cover Len.

That’s a false rune, false, false, true but contains a trap so add an extra counter layer, false, half-true, follow that thread to another half-true and make them whole…

There’s an eleventh strand, as expected. But these are finality runes. This is the final one, no mistake; not even Eobard Thawne could use this kind of symbols as a trick.

Another roar. Bartholomew cries out, but the crash that follows is made by someone who weighs far more than him. Kid’s fighting hard.

Half-true, another half-true but not a match to the first, that’s a match for a third one that he needs to find, false half-true, false, complete true, false, half-true that matches the first but has three traps…

Heat and light flare over the door. Eobard snarls. Len smirks. Well done, Mick.

And…and…

 _Done_.

For how unused it looks, the hinges are silent as Len shoves the door inward.

Eobard pins him to the wall by the throat.

Moron.

“I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you,” the sorcerer hisses.

His toothed grin slackens as his captive’s eyes morph into vertical slits of winter blue. Len’s color: The same as his sister’s. The same as his frost. The very frost for which he still has enough air to breathe at the speedster’s legs.

Eobard cries out in surprise and agony. Len picks himself up from the floor with a few stray coughs of ice.

His wings unfurl, sapphire blue and magnificent.

“Just as I always thought,” says the dragon, “your arrogance is your downfall. Did you honestly think you could continue your enchantment on a dragon while putting his soul within reach?” he drapes a wing around a frozen Mick, drawing him closer. “While putting his mate within reach?”

Bartholomew is grinning. “I should’ve known—you were way too much like a dragon.”

Len smirks. “Go on, kid,” he says, “I think he’s earned a slow death.”

Eobard whips his head around. He yells a wordless insult, but his enemy flexes his fingers around a blackened heart undeterred.

“Lenny,” Mick murmurs, “ _Lenny_.”

Len accepts the rough embrace, pressing his cheek against Mick’s temple. “Mick.”

His mate lets out a haggard noise and holds him tighter.

“It’s alright, Mick. We’ll destroy this castle together and take back our land. I’ll even let you burn the harpies.”

A wet laugh, one that’s drowned by Eobard’s dying cries as Bartholomew crushes the heart in his vibrating hand.

 

Bartholomew throws himself at Len as they say their goodbyes. Len allows it, if only because he owes him for bringing him along.

“I still expect payment,” Len says.

Bartholomew laughs. “Yes, I know. Come to the capital in two days, and I’ll have it ready for you.”

He clasps Len’s arm one last time before speeding off.

Mick doesn’t wait another second. The last part of the enchantment must be broken, after all. As they kiss each other’s mouths bloody, Len’s human shell shatters at last.

A proud dragon roars to the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
